


For He Walks in Gold

by UnknownEnigma, WhiteCrow96



Series: Invictus [1]
Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 12:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownEnigma/pseuds/UnknownEnigma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteCrow96/pseuds/WhiteCrow96
Summary: Haraldas Gomez Aurelius Addams was born for great things.Backstory for Haraldas, before the story proper in Blood, Sex & Magick. Very graphic depictions of torture, so please be mindful.





	For He Walks in Gold

**Author's Note:**

> As said in the summary, there are two scenes with graphic descriptions of torture in this. We understand that you may prefer not to read them, and as such have marked them off. You will see **###** at the start of a torture scene and **####** at the end of it, so you can control+f or cmd+f them as needed. As a short summary of those scenes, the first scene is just a description of the various kinds of torture several Addams have gone through and the second is Haraldas’ personal torture, where he gets molten gold poured over his body.

Mother Magick remembered everyone of her children. Her mind encompassed knowledge and history a human could never understand. 

Magick remembered each being that she had imparted her gift to, from the vilest of hearts to the most gentlest of beings. From the lights that flickered and never burned, to the candles that burned brightly into the night. 

She especially remembered the children of the line Peverell, who came to be known as the line of Potter. They had pledged to Latobius, patron god of the mountains and the sky, when they had transitioned from vassal line Peverell to Thane line Potter. In return, they had gained a tradition that remained a family secret to all but the family members. 

While blood magic was considered dark by mundanes and the Ministry, the Potters were Blooded wix. When a Potter child was born, a symbol to representing their destiny was carved into their skull.

An oracle would gaze into the misty haze of the future and cut the specific symbol she saw into the child’s skin. Every Potter child had been marked, with the exception of little Harry Potter. 

Harry Potter had been marked from birth, destined for more than anyone could imagine. As he was placed on the obsidian altar stone, squealing, still red from birth, his destiny had unfolded before the Oracle. The knowledge had been so profound, she had fainted and the ceremony had been postponed until she awoke an hour later. 

When she awoke, it was if she had been possessed. She carved the symbol into the soft flesh of Harry’s head, but before his parents could look over and gaze upon the symbol, it had sunk into his flesh, disappearing without a trace. 

She had tried seven times; each time the mark had disappeared and neither of his parents bore witness to his mark. After the seventh attempt, her eyes had widened and gained clarity. She had dropped the ritual knife as if it had burned her and fallen to the floor sobbing, long blonde hair pooled around her. 

Neither Dorea nor Charlus had paid much mind to the strange occurrence; they had assumed Harry’s innate magic had hidden the scar and he would reveal it when he was ready. Gathering their child, they swaddled him and departed.

Sadly, they were wrong.

* * *

On the eve of an Addams’ third magical maturation, they were sat down by Dominus Addams and told of their confirmation rites. While the tradition shared many similarities to the Catholic custom, it served a wholly different purpose.

Adamah was the first wix on Earth and it was no coincidence that their familial name was Addams. Ancestor Addams was the first earthly being to be blessed with magic, his parents having been moulded into shape by the hands of the Great One and he being born of the first wix. 

Ancestor Addams was the primary reason for the unusual Addams rite. The Addams were unlike most other blooded wix, for they did not come from the union of Adamah and Havah. Instead they were born of the union of Adamah and a human named Lilith, the first being to pledge to Death, and with that they bore another touch of one of Those Who Came After. 

Addams blood could not spill Addams blood, that was their boon from birth. All wix were cursed by Life to bleed eternally for their impudence, but war and strife had quickened Life’s plan for the death of all wix. The touch of Death allowed all Addams by blood to live a life, in part, free from the looming sword of Life. No Addams, no true Addams, feared death; they couldn’t, because at the end of their life, they would meet Father Death and grasp one another tightly. 

Many put stock in the belief that the reason the Addams were such a virile and powerful clan was due to the fact that the touch of Death promoted harmony and forced civility. 

Like most things that concerned Those Who Came After, it was a two-faced gift. While a verified Addams could not be killed by another Addams, they could still be killed by an outsider. 

Cockiness had killed many an Addams, arrogance even more. Usually, a foolish Addams seldom made it past the age of seventeen and their third magical maturation. 

During an Addams’ third maturity, Death’s touch and the Familae Magick’s were retracted and an Addams child was set to prove to Death that they deserved to be an Addams. If one did not satisfy both Magick and Death, then they were not good enough to be known as an Addams.

During childhood, it was encouraged amongst the Addams children to explore torture and trauma, to find beauty in blood splatter, build a tolerance to the fleeting ecstasy of prolonged pain, to develop patience and an appetite for the untoward.

Electrocution, drowning, asphyxiation, thumbscrews, axes, nails, these were the typical toys and games for an Addams child. To any normal being, any one of these activities would be painful, veering on fatal, but to an Addams, it was just ordinary playtime on any given Tuesday. It was normal to attempt to kill a family member, even better if you injured the other. No weakness was accepted.

Grandmama Addams enjoyed causing gastrointestinal mayhem - indigestion alongside poisoning, caused by her added ‘spices’. If one could call arsenic and cyanide spices. Fester Addams was fond of electrocution and Cousin Anaesthesia had a knack for scaring people to death. 

The rite of a born Addams was to court Death. It was a part of their very essence, and the family burial plot - the graveyard of Honoured Deaths - was a testament to this.

Only those who died an Addams were buried in the graveyard; those who couldn’t fulfil their Rites were forbidden to be laid to rest with other Addams - forever relegated to namelessness. 

Calpurnia Addams had been burnt as a witch in 1706. LaBorgia Addams executed by a firing squad, Fledge Addams torn limb from limb by four wild horses, and Imar Addams was buried alive to the sound of townsfolk dancing on his grave. 

All Addams were killed by outsiders and all held honourable deaths. Those who could not fulfil their Rites were better off dying during their attempt. It was an awful fate to live after failed rites, many wouldn’t speak of the atrocities they’d witnessed when an attempted rite was left unfulfilled. It was a fate no one would wish on a family member. 

* * *

Each Addams was painfully unique, fulfilling their individual purposes and roles accordingly. Therefore it was no surprise that each blooded Addams personalised their Rites, each choosing their own challenge to undertake.

Knowledge of the Rites was passed from parent to child, told only to born Addams of the lineage. Wives, husbands, stepchildren, none were allowed to know the secrets of the Addams’ blood. To take the name was one thing, to be invited into sharing magic - possible, but it couldn’t change the fact they did not have Addams blood running through their veins.

A blooded Addams’ duty was to walk the fine line between life and death. To court Death in its purest form, to wield magic like no one else before them. If one couldn’t, they were found lacking, undeserving of the name Addams. The collective duty of the family was to cull all weakness from the root. They were only as strong as their weakest member, therefore the Addams did not disown, they destroyed. 

Torment and torture was but a gift to the Addams. They revelled in the debauchery and gore of human existence, but ultimately they had limits. If one could surpass the limits imposed upon them, transcend the restrictions placed upon them from conception, truly conquer life, death, and magick, then they deserved to bear the name Addams. This was the reasoning for the Rites. 

If they couldn’t... well then, they would die. If not by the Familae Magicks then by the family Dominus. An Addams did not take failure lightly, could not take failure lightly. If one could not reach their potential then Life’s essence was taken from them. They were laid to rest without the Addams name - never to be remembered. 

**###** Dexter Addams had chosen the rack. He went in 5”10 and all had expected him to fail. He returned a 6”9 maniacal mind that lived up to the name Addams. Gone was the wimpy shell of a man, instead what returned was a tall, cynical man whose joints popped loudly and who had fleshy indentations from the obvious lack of finger and toe nails. However it all just made him even more appealing and dashing - one of the better looking Addams.

Vlad Addams had chosen the Judas Cradle, pun intended of course. Vlad Addams had been eponymously named after Vlad the Impaler and had quite the fascination with stabbing and impaling people, animals, and things. Vlad had returned with festering wounds, and a sexual appetite that ran more akin to torture than mere BDSM. Many of his lovers died after only a night with him under his ‘affections’. Though it was something Uncle NikNak, his father, loved to boast about at family gatherings. 

Balthazar Addams, ever the intellect, had chosen the more mental option. Chinese Water Torture was his choice, a decision made in an effort to prove himself and highlight his vast mental capacities. It also helped that his sister Jezebel had chosen the same method and, for all her promise and potential, hadn’t made it through the Rites. She had lost her mind in the process and was promptly removed from the Addams lineage. She wasn’t missed.

After 70 hours under the effects of cold water dripping on his forehead, Balthazar stepped out out of the harness, cross eyed, possessing permanently blue lips and fingers, and with a small, bloody wound denting his forehead from where Gomez had added acid to the water. Even now, the wound, which weeped putrid yellow pus, made him look dashing, the true talk of all family gatherings, to Vlad’s dismay, but he had yet to find a wife.

Gomez Addams had opted for the Iron Maiden. A Castilian man to the core, he praised the ingenuity of the the Spanish and it’s glorious Inquisition, felt national pride at upholding his culture and his name. 

Agonising hours were spent trying to stay still and quell his erratic movements. All the while, iron spikes pressed deeper and deeper into his skin. As the neurotoxin on the iron spikes flooded his system, his body betrayed him. Heels burning as he tried to shift his balance forward and remain upright, Gomez struggled with sluggishly bleeding wounds, hallucinations, and a need to survive longer than his brother. After one hundred and twenty hours, he came out victorious, impressing even the Familae Magicks to the extent that they named him Head of the family - not Dominus, but Head. **####**

* * *

Then the day came when it was the turn of Haraldas Addams.

Haraldas’ rites had been a burning question amongst the family, the topic of hushed whispers, quiet conversation, and private missives. They could feel it in the Familae Magicks, the anticipation ran rife amongst the even the magicks of the Addams family, as his potential was exponential. It licked at the cores of his other family members, smothered rooms whenever he entered, and crushed whatever stood in his way when he was angry. Cousin What could attest to that.

However, Magick would not give him the title of Heir Dominus easily, skill and potential meant nothing in the eyes of Magick. A Dominus was the foundation of a blooded family, they held Life’s curse for all of their family, Thane families, vassals and so on, so it was not a decision anyone took lightly. 

Therefore, Haraldas had to prove himself worthy of upholding the blood of his family. 

Neither suffocation nor being burnt alive was new to the Addams, but no-one had chosen to court Death by molten gold. Especially not by his method; Haraldas was to have molten gold poured on his face and head, covering his whole body. His battered and beaten body would be subjugated to a power beyond his knowledge - a true sacrifice. 

His father had held an expression of pure unbridled fear as he stood in the ritual chamber. That, Haraldas would never forget. A litany of pleas poured from between cracked lips as the older male watched his young son prepare to subjugate himself to the Familae Magicks. It was only when Haraldas had stripped down to his trousers, removing his prosthetics - his left arm and right leg placed to the side, as he slicked his upper body with oil, did his father relent and help him prepare. 

Haraldas would never forget the expression on his father’s face as he helped to shackle him to the ground, his body positioned so he was kneeling, wrist and forearm shackled to the ground behind him, body slanted in a ninety degree angle. It was the first time Haraldas had ever seen his father cry. Tears streamed from his eyes and fell on Haraldas’ face as he bolted his son and sentenced him to certain death. 

Haraldas was in pain, but the physical pain could not compare to the emotional pain of watching his father mourn at his inevitable death. 

Caesar, grandfather and current family Dominus, was the proctor for his rites. Caesar had taken the role of executor alongside his father, who stood as his witness. Haraldas was certain that the two men held the best interests of the family in their hearts; they would adhere to the family law. They would fulfil their duty to the House of Addams, and if he failed, they would allow him dishonour in death.

The gold was melted in the kiln adjacent to where Haraldas sat. Sweat poured down Gomez’s face as he hauled the pot of melted gold from the fire. The room was slightly below unbearably sweltering. 

“Haraldas Gomez Aurelius Addams, son of Gomez Addams, of the line of the Mad Earl, Vice Addams. On the day of your ascension to Earth, seventeen years ago, you were gifted protection through our cursed blood. On this day, you will be tested to see if you can fulfil your duty evermore as an Addams. Failure is at the expense of your life. May Death itself shine favourably on you.”

There was no fear in Haraldas’ eyes, just calm resignation.

The night of his rites was more than just proving himself to the Familae Magicks, it was where Haraldas Gomez Aurelius Addams was truly born. 

**###** Haraldas remembered the pain as beyond excruciating, beyond anything he could ever remember experiencing. The gold tipped sluggishly from the rim of the pot to his skin, but as soon as it came into contact with his skin it reacted. His skin burned and blistered on impact, blood ran down his body with the melted gold, burning all that he could see out of his eyes until it consumed both orbs. He vaguely remembered wondering about his hair and the scarring. As he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in pain, he quirked the side of his lip at the image of himself bald with horrendous scarring. The only pain that had ever come close was the pain when his arm had been devoured by his own magic.

At one point, Haraldas had expected to pass out from the pain, but he hadn’t. He knew his father still poured the gold from above; it sizzled across his chest, burning out the ink of his tattoos and creating its own pattern on his flesh. 

Without looking up, he knew his relatives were counting the minutes until he died. A numbness overcame him, which he knew meant that the gold had melted through his skin. The smell was one Haraldas would always remember. An unusual dichotomy of rubber and pork and smoke filled the room. 

Finally all the gold was poured out. The pot dropped to the floor with a clang and Haraldas could hear his father retreating to the corner, his sobs loud and ringing in his ears. 

He remained still.

Trapped in his own body, devoid of his senses, Haraldas felt peace. He felt pain but the sense of rightness he felt was one he would forever remember. 

Moments passed. Minutes passed. Hours passed. Possibly years passed. Time was something that Haraldas had fully let go of. 

He struggled to breathe through his collapsed nasal passage and non-existent lips, blood poured from empty eye sockets, the soft tissue of his eyeballs having burned away while his eyes were closed, so he hadn’t realised he no longer had eyes, that the darkness he knelt in was not one willingly chosen. 

He painted a vivid and terrifying picture to his family - empty, sluggishly bleeding eye sockets, exposed bone surrounding his once pearly white teeth, his torso a mix of hardened gold, scarring, and open wounds. His nasal passage had collapsed and the soft tissue had burnt away, gold pooling in the hole in his face that formerly was his nose. The gold had burned away his hair and the thin skin on his head, his skull showed through the gold that hardened on top. He truly was a sight to behold. **####**

* * *

Back when he was young and naive, Haraldas had imagined many faces for Death.

Sometimes he would lay in bed at night and picture Death as a skeletal figure, clothed in billowing black and carrying a scythe that towered over his small bed. Other times, after long sessions with Grandmama harvesting in the family crypt, he’d imagined Death to look like the emaciated victims of natural disasters, starved, malnourished and hanging onto the last shred of life. When he and Death had met for the first time, it was as an old man, wrinkled and shriveled, with decaying teeth and twinkling eyes. 

Never, however, had he imagined Death to appear as a girl his own age, just leaving behind the last stages of puberty, universally plain, with brown hair that curled along her cheekbones and knotted behind her ears, dull dishwater brown eyes, hidden behind thick wide rimmed glasses. She nibbled on blunt fingernails. She seemed timid and shy, nothing like what Haraldas had expected, especially not after their last meeting.

She shuffled forward.

Brown corduroy trousers, a long sleeved white t-shirt and a black waistcoat. Sneakers adorned her feet and three threaded bracelets jingled on her skinny wrist. The only aspect that betrayed her role as Death was her ghostly pale pallor and blank eyes.

“Harry?” She asked, peering at his hunched form. Haraldas grunted his reply and stood, his chains magically vanishing from his wrists. “Haraldas,” he corrected and she nodded, a glint in her eyes.

“The first time we met, I called you Harry. That’s not about to change now.” She spat the last word out with a saccharine smile and sickly infliction. 

Haraldas said nothing. His stoic mask painted a picture of true apathy, an expression more daunting than Death herself. 

Silence was thick, blanketing them. A wealth of unspoken words lay between them.

She snorted, quickly shedding her timid and shy mask. A sharp glint entered her eyes, making her seem more powerful and much older to Haraldas, but it quickly changed back into the blank expression of before. “Do you have nothing to say?” She quirked the side of her lip. “Many would die for the opportunity to meet me, and you’ve had the pleasure of meeting me thrice.”

Haraldas said nothing but discontent roared in his eyes. She pressed on, smirking. “Still, I know you must wonder why I called you here today, Harry. I haven’t interacted with a mortal for generations, not since those three brothers… Alas, I forget their names.” Her words and tone were in deep contrast with one another. Haraldas knew she liked to play games. He knew first hand, but he wouldn’t succumb to her pathetic mind games. Not again. 

Her soft spoken voice talked about the passage of time as if it were banal and insignificant. She didn’t care for humanity, that he knew well. “Ah yes, I remember. Ig, Ant and Cad. Oh, I remember the fun we had, the havoc we caused. Still, we’re here to talk about you, the newest member of the Addams Clan. Caesar’s little prodigy. Officially, I must say that I have accepted your rites as the patron of the Addams family and wish you luck, Heir Dominus.” 

Haraldas shook his head in slight disbelief. “I have been raised to believe that Lady Hecate was the patron of our family, **Father** Death.” He spoke the title begrudgingly, but still made a point to emphasis it. He was nothing if not unfailingly polite.

Death smiled at Haraldas knowingly. “Do you not believe me, Haraldas? After all, this is not our first meeting. I thought I left quite the impression last time, proving exactly how much integrity I have.” 

Haraldas’ mask broke. His lips curled into a snarl, the light in his eyes dimming and dying, and magic crackled in the air. “You left more than an impression, **Lord** Death.” 

Death nodded and waved her hand dismissively. “Of course, of course, but that's all in the past now, isn't it? After all, though sister blessed you to wield her, in the end, I will lay claim your lifeforce.”

“I would rather leave my soul to eternal misery and damnation than spend a moment longer in your company.” His voice was steely and cold, with none of the forced affection or artificial politeness that usually coloured his speech.

She bared her teeth slightly, head cocked to the side. Her expressions was odd and in contrast to her youthful flesh. “I only did as you asked, Harry. I gave you my price and you offered your payment. It was just good business.”

Rage filled Haraldas, evident in his jerky body language and stoic expression. “I gave you my leg and my magic as payment, and you gave me nothing in return.” He looked deep into her eyes, the fire in his own burning black. “I am not the untrustworthy one between us.”

Death rolled her eyes, an emphatic noise from the back of her throat echoing around them. “Obviously, some of us are still sore about the past. C’est la vie! To answer your question, **Harry** , the first Addamson, Lillith’s son, followed his mother and pledged himself to me when he learned Life had pulled him from his father’s line.”

She grinned up at Harry, a maniacal glint in her eyes. “He pledged his all to me - Death in all its glory - not the current watered down version of your pitiful line.” She laughed darkly. “Many of his descendants chose Hecate as their personal patron. She gave them ‘great’ gifts, powers in sorcery, potions and poisons.” She paused for effect. “You mortals were never loyal creations, but what were we to expect? You learned that from us.” 

She grinned. “I am the true patron of the Addams. After all your rite is to court me, is it not? Only those who have passed their Rites may know of me, the one they pledged to serve for eternity. You have now joined the ranks of those who are under my protection, my servants. Of which you are now one.” 

Haraldas bristled and pursed his lips. “I belong to no one but myself.” 

She circled the stoic male, like a wolf tracking its prey, prodding at him with her long knobbly finger as her features twisted and turned in front of his eyes. “No one but a born Addams who’s fulfilled their Rites can know, Harry. It is the secret of the Addams and it must be kept. Those outside know the Addams patron as Hecate and it will remain as such.”

As she spoke, her young visage melted and twisted away and Death flickered between the frail old man he remembered and her new body. Haraldas was wary of his woeful expression, the same one that had tugged on his heart strings previously and had overridden his logic. 

“What is in it for me?” The words fell from Haraldas’ mouth quicker than he could catch them and pull them back. While he was not one to be impudent and quick with his tongue, both he and Death knew he had a soft spot for the old man. 

A light danced in Death’s eyes as she settled back down in her young feminine body. “After all this time, you would still want to wager?” she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

Immediately, Haraldas bristled. 

She circled around him like a lion after its prey, before she shrunk down again back into the withered old man who peered up at him with ageless eyes. “Have you not learned to not make wagers you can’t fulfil?” He asked, faux sympathy colouring his speech. 

Haraldas brushed Death away with the flick of his wrist and a cold look in his eyes that spoke volumes.

“You insipid little cretin,” she spat, rearing back. “You should be kissing the ground I walk on for saving your life. If it wasn't for my intervention, you would be nothing more than a footnote in history. My wager made you who you are - never forget that.” 

Haraldas said nothing but flames reignited in his eyes. Closing his eyes momentarily, he breathed in deeply. “Why are we still here?” he asked, his voice calm and monotone.

Death’s bottom lip quivered in faux hurt, as if she was preparing to cry, but her eyes glittered with malicious intent. “You wound me so, Harry James Potter. Child of Love, blessed by Zeus and Labotius, chosen of the Addams - touched by Midas. What’s two limbs and some stolen magic between friends?” She purred the last words as her crocodile tears dried on their descent. 

“Still, I’m keeping you here to impart some knowledge. You, like your ungrateful race, are a hedonistic wretch. Constantly hungering after something, consuming everything in your path, never fulfilled. You’re going to consume everything this world has to offer before dying a glutton. If you weren’t a useless bag of flesh, you may have had some worth, your accolades could've been admirable but such is life.”

Haraldas looked at her for a moment before snorting and shaking his head. “Do I care? You act as if autonomy has not allowed me to make these decisions under my own rationalisation. I have no shame, why should I?”

Death let out a wet sickly laugh, like the symptoms of the diseases she spread across the world. “I don’t particularly care about you, Harry, I must admit. I enjoy watching your soul, nurturing it as it becomes increasingly more black, twisted, and broken. It’s quite beautiful. Still, you are only one in several billion. Nothing special.” 

Her expression became increasingly more solemn. “Unfortunately, others do not share my opinion of you. They want you to alive, so you may want to leave before I decide to take your life as forfeit,” the old man said, gaining control over Death, both sides having come to an agreement. 

Anger coloured Haraldas’ face and his muscles tensed in preparation to move, though truthfully he knew that if Death wanted him, he wouldn’t escape. Death stared deep into green eyes and shook his head. He reached out a hand weathered by age and cupped the left side of Haraldas’ face in his palm, rubbing his thumb against the prominent cheek bone. 

Neither said a word. 

Then Death dropped his hand and stepped backwards, pace by pace, until he ceased to exist. 

Haraldas blinked thrice before his vision blurred.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, it was not to the white space he had inhabited with Death. Instead, he awoke to the brick and mortar walls of the family dungeon. His father and grandfather stood before him, eyes wide with shock. As Haraldas rose from his slumped position, he forced his magic outwards to break the suppression cuffs that bound him. The chains dropped to the stone floor with a resounding clang and Haraldas raised his head to look at his family members. 

When Haraldas later asked his father why he had looked so astonished, he learned that he had died. They had checked for a pulse from his disfigured remains and felt nothing and his breathing had stopped. He had remained that way for seven minutes before the impossible happened. Bone began to reform and straightened before their very eyes. Veins, arteries, and capillaries had pieced themselves together from the charred remains of DNA. The gold fell from his body as if it was disgusted by Haraldas’ presence. 

He was born again before their eyes. 

As he rose naked to walk before them, the picture had seared itself into his father's mind and he had later said, “I knew you were destined for greatness as you walked amongst that broken gold.” A line that Haraldas had found haunted him ever since.

His grandfather had quickly lost his bewilderment and recited the closing phrasing of the Rites. “Haraldas Gomez Aurelius Addams, you have proven to our patron, Lord Death, that you can court him with with ferocity and defend the gift he begrudgingly gave you when he blessed our Clan. You have proven yourself worthy of Addams blood and forever will it cling to you, for you earned it as testament to your tenacity. Rise, Haraldas of the Addams Clan, blessed of Death.”

In the end, no evidence remained of his trial, except for the light dusting of what almost looked like gold powder along his hairline and along the left side of his cheek. An eternal reminder of his brush with Death.

* * *

Later on, after witnessing the wonders performed by one Haraldas Aurelius Gomez Addams, who used to be Harold ‘Harry’ James Potter, many would say that he was a Childe of Magick herself. 

They were wrong.

Haraldas Addams was a Childe of a greater power. He was a child of the Great IT. The IT that had once breathed Life over the world. 

The Great IT had chosen Haraldas Addams and it was a gift none of Those Who Came After could interfere with. Haraldas walked a path of his own, blessed by the Great One. 

Later, he would be known as a catalyst to the change that had swept the world and his name written down in history. His every action would be studied and dissected. But no one would ever make the connection between the name Haraldas Aurelius Gomez Addams and the symbols that IT had burned into little Harry Potter’s soul. 

‘The golden ruler of man on Earth.’ It had a better rhythm to it than the runic symbol for ‘changeling’ that the Oracle had attempted to imprint on him upon birth. But Haraldas would later learn that changeling he was indeed. He was charged with restoring balance, of bringing the world back to the axis it had been created upon, and Haraldas would fulfil this duty without complaint. He learned early the difference between the King he had thought he would be and the ruler IT knew he would become. 

Haraldas was not god marked like other wix and ruled by blood. No. Instead, Haraldas was marked by the Great IT, blessed by Love, and remembered by Death. 

The changeling of the Potters and the golden calf of the Addams and the ruler of man.

The great plan came to a head and the future began to take shape as the emerald eyes of Haraldas Addams met the gaze of one sepia eyed Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Those Who Came After sat forward on their chairs, and the Great One stilled, as human history was changed forever. 

* * *

**For Haraldas Aurelius Gomez Addams was formed of the darkness, blessed by the skies, and walked with golden footsteps.**


End file.
